


Blushes

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [10]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn, Porn with Feelings, and childish behaviour, cursing, general all-round irritability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-20 13:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20676254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: “Why the fuck have we never done it like this before?” Alfie asks, head resting on the back of the sofa, gaze fixed on Tommy. “I mean seriously, why have you never been on top? All that time spent with horses and never ... not once have you ridden me. This is a fucking travesty, mate. One we are gonna put right…right this fucking second, before another minute of my life is wasted."Set chronologically in my AU after Hollow, but can easily be read on its own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Set somewhere between seasons 3 and 4, when Tommy has freed his family from jail but none of them are talking to him).

Tommy’s already sitting at a small round table, drink in hand when Alfie turns up. He’s chosen a dark corner, far from the doors and far from the bar but close to the glowing fire. Something’s off, Alfie can tell immediately, even from the other side of the pub. He’d be hard-pressed to guess at what, because to anyone else Tommy no doubt looks perfectly poised – crisp suit, sharp hair, expression of intense concentration on his face. He’s staring at the newspaper half-folded in front of him and hasn’t looked up, hasn’t spotted Alfie yet, which alright, might be nothing in itself be because he _is_ on the other side of the pub and he _is_ engrossed in the paper. Except that Alfie can tell he isn’t really reading it at all, can’t be, doesn’t even have his glasses on. There’s something about the way he’s sitting too, holding his shoulders, leaning down to one side.And of course there’s the drink itself… the pint of beer in place of his usual whiskey. Alfie frowns inwardly but determines not to question him. It rarely gets him anywhere with Tommy.

He chose this pub because it’s far enough from his usual stomping ground to avoid too many prying eyes – Angel rather than Camden. He also happens to know that they serve an excellent steak and it’s hard for Tommy to avoid food if they’re actually meeting for dinner. He picks up two menus from the bar as he heads over, footsteps deadened by the patterned carpet so thick with spilt beer and cigarette ash that it sticks to his boots with every stride. He makes it all the way to the far corner undetected, finally rousing Tommy from his thoughts by throwing both menus on the table in front of him. Tommy’s eyes jolt up in response, a split-second of confusion quickly hidden with a greeting. 

“Evening Alfie,” he says in a voice that sounds gravelly, even by Tommy’s standards.

“Forgive me for rousing you from whatever lovely daydream had your attention so wrapt,” Alfie replies, “but I for fucking one am absolutely starving, mate. So pick something and I’ll go order.” 

Tommy tilts the menu up half-heartedly and holds it at arms length whilst he scans it through squinted eyes. “Fish and chips,” he says without the slightest trace of enthusiasm. 

“Sure?” Alfie asks, “they do an excellent steak.” Tommy merely lifts his left arm in response, drawing attention to the hand, still bandaged and splinted from his recent fall. 

“I can always cut it up for you,” Alfie offers, smirking, which earns him a look so scathing it would wither lesser mortals on the spot. “Alright, your loss,” Alfie shrugs, already heading back towards the bar, because he wasn’t joking, he’s famished. When he returns a few minutes later Tommy seems more alert, he’s removed the paper from the table and looks Alfie in the eye for the first time, properly taking him in. “So, how’s your week been?” he asks, cupping his hand as he lights a cigarette.

It’s exactly a week since Alfie left Arrow House, reluctantly entrusting Tommy to the care of Frances and his staff whilst he recovered from the various injuries caused by his nasty fall. Olly couldn’t cope alone any longer and, to be fair, Tommy had clearly needed some space. So Alfie's been back at the bakery, catching up and fixing more problems than he'd like. He's found it more difficult than he’s going to admit being away from Tommy too. Not that he’s going to say that out loud or expect anything like reciprocated emotions from Thomas Shelby, despite the frank conversations they had whilst in Warwickshire. 

“Trying,” Alfie answers, honestly. “This week has been trying.” He knows Tommy well enough to tread carefully, not to coddle him or expect too much. The man only opens up under duress, so whilst Alfie would dearly love to ask how he’s feeling, how’s the shoulder, what’s fucking _wrong_? he chooses to keep things steady, low-key. He can pry later, when he’s got Tommy in bed.

Fuck it’s hot over here he thinks, deliberately choosing a chair on the side of the table furthest from the flames. Tommy seems completely unperturbed by the temperature so he doesn’t comment, simply removes his coat and unbuttons his waistcoat. He rambles a bit about the bakery, the US market, it’s all suitably vague because they don’t really discuss each others’ business in detail – unless it’s mutual of course. Tommy talks about Michael, who’s managing the Birmingham end of the Shelby Company and seems to be frustrating Tommy with endless queries and problems. The family situation is entirely unchanged from what he can glean, no contact with Polly or Arthur or John despite Tommy’s recent near-death experience. _Cunts, _Alfie thinks, before pushing that thought away. Things seem to be civil with the sister at least, but she’s in New York and he doubts Tommy will have told her anything about his recent woes.

A barmaid appears with their food, distracting Alfie from thoughts of what he’d like to do to Tommy’s ungrateful family. She brings cutlery and napkins and bustling good cheer which serves only to highlight how quiet Tommy seems. It’s not that he isn’t talking, he _is_, he’s asking questions and answering Alfie’s. It’s just that he seems distracted, indifferent, that air of inpenetrability making it impossible to tell what's going on inside his head. Alfie tries to brush it aside, much as it irks him, puts it down to fatigue, or the fact that they’re in public. At least Tommy is eating, using only his right hand and cutting the meal with the side of his fork – consuming it distractedly whilst Alfie rambles. He stops about half way through, clearly having caught Alfie oh-so-carefully _not_ watching him. 

“Alfie, stop,” he says, without looking up.

“What, mate?” Alfie replies.

“I'm fine. I don’t need this, alright?”Tommy sighs irritably. “It’s bad enough feeling like shit and eating one-fucking-handed, without you sitting there examining me at the same time.”

“Minding my own fucking business here, just eating my steak,” Alfie quite clearly lies. He's not going to ask why he's feeling like shit, he's admitted it at least.

“Coming down with a cold, that’s all,” Tommy huffs.

Alfie doesn’t look up, doesn’t push, doesn’t say _anything_, even as Tommy puts his cutlery together in a clear indication that he won’t be eating any more. And it is fucking hard, a lot harder than he anticipated. It's not like he thought Tommy would suddenly be all hearts and flowers, just because they've come to some sort of understanding, admitted some fucking feelings. But they've only been apart one week and he can’t tell what the hell’s going on here, why Tommy's so off. Alfie finishes his meal in silence.

“Do you wanna come back to Ada’s?” Tommy asks eventually, voice low so as not to be overheard.

“Well, I don’t know mate, let me think,” Alfie answers, voice exaggeratedly thoughtful. “I haven’t seen you for a week and have spent most of that time worrying about you and I do distinctly recall, right, us saying that we would make an effort. Every week. I do distinctly remember you agreeing to that in fact. So I don't know...I don't know why I feel I need to ask, mate, but do _you_ want me to?” _Because I don't know why you’re being an irritable prick _he doesn't add.

“Yes,” Tommy says quickly, clearing his throat, “I want you to. Just, you know, if you don’t want to get sick…don’t want to catch something, then…”

“Hmm.” Alfie interjects, “that’s what you’re thinking here?” He’s looking at Tommy now, fuck being subtle, he wants to know what’s going on. Only Tommy won’t look at him, is already reaching for his coat, standing up, pulling it on. Damn him.

“You driving then?” Tommy asks as he heads towards the door, almost as if he's going to change his mind if he thinks about this for a second longer. He slaps a note on the bar on his way out.

–––

They drive in silence, all barr the directions Tommy gives as they approach his sister’s house. It’s a very nice townhouse, in a very nice part of town. “You sure your sister won’t mind?” Alfie asks as they pull up outside.

“It’s my house,” Tommy answers, sounding unnecessarily petulant Alfie thinks. Possessive even.

“S’not what I asked mate.”

“If you mean will she mind me bringing my boyfriend back here and fucking him in the spare room, I haven’t asked her.”

“Fuckin’ hell, mate,” Alfie sighs, “haven’t fucking asked me either.”

With that Tommy just glares, and opens the car door, “well if you have somewhere better to be, don’t let me fucking detain you,” he snaps as he marches towards the front steps, head bowed, fiddling with the keys.

“Jesus Christ, Tommy…” Alfie sighs, the man is so fucking infuriating. A few months ago he would probably have just driven off. Seriously. But that’s just one of the things he’s learnt isn’t it? The more Tommy pushes you away the more he fucking _needs_ you to hold on. So Alfie gets out of the car and slams the door behind him in frustration, because he might have some understanding but he is _not_ a fucking saint and he _is_ fucking cross. The noise draws more attention than is strictly necessary in the genteel, darkened street.

Tommy casts an exasperated look in Alfie’s direction as he opens the front door and steps inside. “Ada’s very tolerant of me, she won’t mind. And besides, she’s in New York," he says. "The fucking neighbours aren’t though, so keep it down, eh?” 

“Is that right?” Alfie says, shutting the front door behind them and sliding one arm around Tommy’s waist from behind, pulling him close. "You’d better bite your tongue when I fuck you then, 'cause as a rule, it's not me has to keep it down is it?”

Tommy tries to pull away, but Alfie simply turns him round and pushes him up against the wall in one easy move, one hand coming up to grip his face, hard. "Wouldn’t want the neighbours to hear how you moan with a cock in your arse would we?"

Tommy just stares back at him silently, pupils dilating, chest heaving. Alfie can’t work out if that look in his eye is making him angry or turning him on.“What the fuck is your problem tonight? Hmm?”

“You. You’re my fucking problem,” Tommy grates through clenched teeth. Alfie lets go of his face and as soon as he does Tommy lunges forwards, kissing him hard, putting one hand behind his head and pulling him through the door into a large living room. That seems to resolve that then, as much as it's going to be resolved Alfie guesses. Tommy Shelby is one contrary fucker sometimes.

“Maids?” Alfie asks, looking round briefly, spotting one lamp lit and the remnants of a fire in the grate. It’s a large room, tastefully decorated as far as he can tell in the almost-dark. Definitely a woman’s touch.

“No. Just me. I was here earlier,” Tommy answers, and he walks over to the fire, bending down to throw two logs on. “S’cold upstairs”.

“Yeah, well here’s just fine innit?” Alfie says, flopping down onto a large velvet sofa, stretching his arms along the back. He watches Tommy fidgeting with the poker for a few minutes, before he loses patience and growls, “just get the fuck over here.”

Tommy puts the poker down and slowly comes to stand in front of the sofa, taking his time, like he doesn't want to obviously do exactly as Alfie has said. So Alfie just grabs him by the backs of the knees, pulling him up until he’s straddling Alfie’s lap. Then they’re kissing again, and they both seem less bothered, too busy fumbling with clothes, Tommy pulling Alfie’s coat off his shoulders, his shirt out of his trousers. Alfie undoes Tommy’s waistcoat, then his shirt, ripping the last few buttons so he can run his hands over that pale skin, taut stomach.

“M’cold,” Tommy rasps as Alfie tries to shove everything back and off him.

“Yeah, well, leave it all on then,” Alfie breathes back, “all except these,” he says, unbuttoning Tommy’s flies and hooking his thumbs into the waistband. Tommy shifts his legs, tutting and kicking at his shoes until they clatter to the floor. Then Alfie helps him clumsily out of his trousers, sliding them first down one leg, then the other until they too are pooled on the floor. Alfie shuffles his own trousers down to his knees and manages to get one leg out before Tommy straddles him again, impatient and already hard. He tries to tip forwards, to lean in, but Alfie puts both hands in the way, catches him round the ribs and grips him firmly. Like a ballet dancer poised for a lift, he holds Tommy just at arm’s length, humming deeply as he takes in the sight – he's naked from the waist down, shirt open, jacket undone, still wearing his bloody great coat. He looks fucking _obscene_ – even more indecent than if he was completely naked – sweat soaking his neck and chest, hair falling in his face. Whatever strange distance was in his eyes earlier this evening has vanished, replaced by a look of blatant lust.

“Why the fuck have we never done it like this before?” Alfie asks, head resting on the back of the sofa, gaze fixed on Tommy. “I mean seriously, why have you never been on top? All that time spent with horses and never ... not once have you ridden _me_. This is a fucking _travesty_, mate. One we are gonna put right…right this fucking second, before another minute of my life is wasted."

"Shut up, Alfie," Tommy retorts, like he's suddenly coy.

"Look. At. You," Alfie growls, arms still holding Tommy back, eyes still appraising him. Slowly he releases Tommy's ribs to fumble for the oil in his trouser pocket. The other hand reaches under the large black coat where he splays his fingers wide across Tommy’s lower back and pulls him in close in one rough, possessive movement. He is going to fucking savour this...Tommy looking like _this_...splayed out like _this._ He is gonna lay back and enjoy.

Within moments he has slicked the fingers of his other hand and brought them down to circle Tommy’s hole and then he’s plunging in deeply, just one finger, smoothly, insistently. Tommy gasps and flattens himself against Alfie’s reclined body, arches his back and tilts his hips in, which has the pleasing effect of pushing his arse out even further. Alfie hums with satisfaction, rather pleased with this turn of events. Tommy's legs are spread so wide across his lap he’s just asking for another finger and of course, Alfie obliges, pushing a second digit in as far as he can. Tommy digs his nails into the back of Alfie’s neck, pants against his shoulder and lets slip a little cry that instantly has Alfie’s cock leaking onto his stomach. 

“Gonna open you up so nicely,” Alfie mumbles somewhere close to Tommy’s ear, “get you outta that head for a while, hmm?” He’s moving those fingers now, slowly pushing in and out, stretching as he goes. Tommy’s hips start to rock into it too and Alfie tries not to think about the way that’s pushing their cocks together, how hard they both feel. “S’gonna be so deep like this, Tom, when you sit on me, take me all in,” he pants. Tommy’s just making muffled sounds against his neck now and _fuck_, he needs to stop thinking about this and focus or it’ll all be over before they've even _done_ anything.

He grabs a handful of Tommy’s hair and snaps his head back, capturing his lips in a deep kiss, pushing his fingers in firmly, relishing this new position and the access it gives him. Tommy bucks initially and clenches, but Alfie holds him still with the fingers dug deep and the hand in his hair. 

"That's it, you take them, Tommy," he says, slowly starting to move again, to curl his fingers and stroke him just right. When he hits that sweet spot there is no mistake, Tommy groans into his mouth so wantonly that Alfie can’t help but laugh in delight and do it again. He knows that Tommy will be mortified, still too 'present' to let himself go. As predicted, the laughter _does_ infuriate him, makes him push against Alfie’s chest, opening a gap between them into which he glares furiously. The problem is it only makes Alfie smile more, that look of defiance on Tommy's face, like he thinks he's being mocked. As if Alfie could honestly mock something as divine as those whimpers, those groans. He slides his fingers out, slowly, carefully, because he can, because he’s being a bastard ... because Tommy is looking at him like _that_. He grins up at Tommy – now empty and angry and flustered above him – like a child whose lolly’s been taken away.

“What?” he asks, innocently, stroking Tommy's cheek.

“You…” Tommy starts, but can’t seem to say any more. He looks so hot and bothered it's making Alfie's knees feel weak.

“Want something back, darling?”

“Just…fuck…Alfie…”

“Think we're done with the fingers, eh?" Alfie says darkly. "You want more, you can fucking sit on it, love.” He nods down at his cock, watches Tommy's eyes follow, until he's looking down between Alfie’s legs, very still for a moment, tongue slipping out of his mouth to wet his bottom lip inadvertently. He’s nervous, Alfie realises, or embarrassed, maybe both ... which just makes this whole situation all the more delicious.

The problem is, his natural inclination isn’t to smooth the waters or put Tommy at ease. No. His natural inclination is to amplify this, make it worse, make it harder. He wants Tommy crimson, aching with shame.

“Here, I’ll help,” Alfie whispers, leaning down for more oil, stroking himself slowly a few langurous times. He stops with his hand at the base of his cock, holding it up, glisteningly hard. He leaves his hand in place but rests his head nonchalantly against the back of the sofa. Tommy couldn’t look _less_ nonchalant if he tried, he flushes bright red.

“What’ya waiting for Tommy? Just need to lift those slender hips and sit the fuck down, hmm?” Tommy says nothing, seems frozen above him. He's staring glassily over Alfie's shoulder, waiting for something, for him to help, or relent or take over. _Silly boy._ Alfie watches him for a while, gives him some time, but frankly it's taking too long. Alfie's ready and waiting and getting impatient. There's taking your time and taking the piss. He reaches one hand up and grips Tommy’s throat.

“You need some help to comply, love?” he asks, voice as sweet as honey. “Need to lay over my knee while I slap some fucking obedience into you, hmm?” Tommy's gaze flicks up to Alfie's at that and he shakes his head quickly, eyes wide and sincere.

“No, thought not. Your pretty arse hasn’t recovered from the last time yet has it?” Alfie growls, remembering the whip and the unwholesome sounds it drew from Tommy’s lips only a week ago.

“Better move then, sweetie. Sit on me. Fill yourself up. Before I decide to teach you a lesson anyway.” There’s a pause as if Tommy’s assessing how serious Alfie is, reading his eyes, although they both know by now that he is _always_ serious in bed ... always willing to push him, to test, to cajole.

And Alfie can sense it, the internal fight, the moment Tommy caves, the switch in his eyes. He stills himself completely to drink in the view, to feel Tommy's breath catch, his muscles twitch. Slowly he's shifting, adjusting his weight, planting his feet flat beside Alfie's hips. He moves his right hand back to grip Alfie’s thigh, cock thrusting up as he steadies himself. He's got to move to make this work, got to lean back, expose himself more, position his arse. And Alfie just watches, obnoxiously unhelpful, enjoying the struggle far too much – Tommy’s downcast eyes and unsure movements and delicate breaths. It's so quiet in the room, no distractions beyond the odd flash of headlights through the barely closed curtains; nothing to draw his attention from the beautiful man straining in his lap. He keeps the hand on Tommy's throat until they are finally lined up, he can feel Tommy's entrance teasingly close. Then they wait there, poised, Tommy swallowing loudly, eyes falling shut.

Why this feels so important Alfie can't say, it's not like they've never fucked before. But he wants Tommy present, wants him to _look_, to know how much he is _wanted_. _Adored_.

“Open your eyes, Thomas,” Alfie says calmly, but Tommy just tips his head back and ignores him.

"Just relax. Open your eyes."

“Fuck, Alfie…” Tommy whispers, lids fluttering open reluctantly.

“Look at me while you take me in,” Alfie says, so tense with desire his voice is a mess. And then Tommy is sinking down onto him, slowly, deliciously, so hot and tight it makes Alfie groan. He feels Tommy's fingers dig into his thigh, his muscles tensing and adjusting to the angle, the depth. Tommy closes his eyes again, wincing slightly, trying so hard to mask his reactions. Fuck the eye contact, Alfie is too enthralled to chastise him, it just feels so deep, so intense.

“Such a good boy,” he rasps, bringing his hands up to Tommy's sides, guiding him down the last little bit. The man struggles around him, muscles fluttering and easing until finally Alfie feels Tommy's weight come to rest on his pelvis, his legs falling limp, no longer holding him up. _Fucking hell_ it’s a lot. Tommy looks wrecked, overwrought. They’re not even _moving _yet. 

Alfie leans forwards, sitting up, because _fuck it_, Tommy looks like he needs to be held. He reaches his arms under the coat, around Tommy’s back.

"That's it, doing so good..._fuck_," Alfie rasps. As he pulls their bodies close Tommy’s head falls silently onto his shoulder and he grips Alfie's neck with one arm. Then slowly Alfie starts moving, because one of them has to and it seems it ain't going to be Tommy. He bucks his hips up, thrusting carefully, deeply. It feels so fucking good, so _intimate_.

"I love you, Tommy," he whispers against him, still thrilled to say it out loud. After a minute he braces Tommy’s ribs again, holding him up, rocking him down in time with the thrusts. And Tommy is moaning, languidly, sluggishly, sliding gently in time with Alfie’s motion, head hanging low, hair sheilding his eyes. But Alfie's the power, the driving force here, his movements are bringing them closer. _So much for being ridden_ he thinks but can't muster the will to be cross about it, not when he has Tommy so pliant in his arms, not when it feels like _this_.

The harder he thrusts, the heavier Tommy feels, like a weight in his lap now, barely moving just _being_ moved. The arm round his neck has slackened too, Tommy's grip loose and soft. Alfie’s so fucking _close, _he reaches between them, finds Tommy’s cock and squeezes gently, stroking him, rocking him, filling him until he feels Tommy coming between them, so gently and quietly he might almost have missed it if not for the wetness that spills into his hand, coats his shirt. And then Alfie is tipping over the edge himself, bucking up hard as he rides the waves of his release. He leans back against the sofa, panting and breathless, as Tommy slumps heavily with him.

They lie like that for several minutes, catching their breath, coming back down. Alfie's cock is wet and softened, but Tommy hasn't shifted, hasn't move a fucking inch. He gets like this sometimes after sex, warm and docile, reluctant to move. Alfie can feel Tommy's head lying heavily on his shoulder, and almost wonders if he's dozed off. But he's suddenly aware of the heat, the sweat, can feel it through the fabric of his shirt. He turns his face towards Tommy, lifts his shoulder a little to tilt the man's head. Tommy lolls drowsily, irritable and lethargic and suddenly Alfie is pulled from his languor. He places one palm flat against Tommy's forehead and tips his head back. _Shit_, he's so fucking hot. 

Alfie pulls himself upright and tips Tommy sideways, cradling him in one arm whilst he yanks open the shirt and jacket with the other. He pushes the coat off one shoulder whilst Tommy lies floppy and uncooperative, mumbling, "leave me alone." Alfie hauls himself up, fastening his trousers as he stands. Why didn't he notice? Tommy lies strangely still, a total mess of clothes and legs and sweat and come. _Jesus Christ_, Alfie needs to sort this out, cool him down, clean him up. He straightens Tommy's legs and puts a cushion under his head. He's lying on top of Alfie's discarded coat, half out of his own. Alfie pulls at the left sleeve, trying to get the rest of the coat off, past the bandages that protect his injured hand. He's not careful enough, Tommy shouts in pain and grabs at his arm as Alfie slides the clothes off regardless, a little too roughly, but at least it's done. That's when he notices the fingers: bright red and shiny with swelling, bandaged painfully beneath the splint.

"When did the stitches come out?" he asks, urgently, shaking Tommy when he doesn't answer. "The stitches, Tommy, when did the doctor take them out?" 

"Still in," Tommy mumbles, coughing slightly and trying to sit up. "M'cold Alfie," he moans reaching for the coat on the floor. 

"You're not, love, you're fucking _roasting_," Alfie shouts, anger rising in his throat. He puts one hand to Tommy's forehead again, as if reminding himself that he's right. "You haven't got a cold. It's _this_ ... this is _infected_ you bloody idiot," he says, holding Tommy's left arm.

He storms off in search of the kitchen, hunting for bowls and cloths, anything he can use to clean Tommy up and cool him down. He returns with supplies and perches on the edge of the sofa, wiping Tommy's face first, frowning at his colour. He moves down Tommy's body, ignoring the protests, wiping away the sweat and the evidence of sex. They might need a doctor. He picks up the discarded clothes and folds them, then wipes at his own damp shirt too, retrieving his waistcoat to fasten over the top. It'll do for now. 

That leaves Tommy sprawled naked on the sofa, damp from the cloths, shivers setting in. He refuses to put on his underwear, keeps demanding his coat or a blanket. Alfie settles for draping his shirt over his hips and decides that will have to do.

–––

Things go downhill fairly fast after that. Tommy's temperature continues to rise, until he is sweating copiously and shivering hard. He's not quite delirious, just feverishly obstinate; he refuses to drink any water and mumbles and fidgets and lashes out intermittently. Alfie ignores him as best he can and focuses on unwinding the bandages, discarding the splint. The grisly sight beneath – blackened stitches, crusted over and weeping – only serves to reinforce every one of Alfie's fears. Thomas Shelby is a hazard to himself. He would bet any money he hasn't seen the doctor since Alfie left last week and has half a mind to ring Frances right now and find out why the fuck not. 

He manages to persuade Tommy to leave his hand in a bowl of saltwater whilst he goes off in search of iodine. He has no idea where the fuck to look in this huge house, eventually giving up and returning with scissors and tweezers he's found in the bathroom.

"Right, mate, gonna have to get these stitches out now, before this gets any worse," he says, sitting on the edge of the sofa and gripping Tommy's left arm. 

"S'fine," Tommy mumbles, like Alfie's just asked if he can smoke.

"Yeah, s'not gonna be fine for the next ten minutes though, is it mate? Brought this on yourself. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Alfie proceeds to snip each of the thirty stitches in Tommy's hand, before using the tweezers pull them out. There's a huge amount of hissing and swearing on both sides. Tommy calls Alfie every name under the sun; accuses him of enjoying this, of not being careful, of deliberately hurting him to make a fucking point. That thought might, in fact, have crossed Alfie's mind – it's no more than Tommy deserves – but it isn't true. He is actually too worried to be actively sadistic, which doesn't stop him reminding Tommy, with virtually every stitch, what a self-destructive disaster he is. 

At this moment, shouting at Tommy feels easier than consoling him and besides, it's taking his mind off how much Tommy is sweating and shaking. "You stupid, selfish, belligerent fuck. You _promised_...fucking _promised_ to look after this," he says. "And you let me _fuck_ you, you ignoramus."

"You wanted to be ridden," Tommy mumbles, trying to smirk through the pain, and failing.

"Not by someone half-comatose," Alfie murmurs, although his words are laced with self-loathing, because in hindsight he should have known something was wrong. "Fucking lemmings have better self-preservation instincts than you, Tommy." 

They continue in this vein until the last thread is out and finally, he plunges Tommy's hand back into the salt water, holding it under with a firm hand round his wrist whilst Tommy gasps and fights it. When he's finally still and quiet Alfie takes a deep breath and leans down to kiss Tommy's forehead, to stroke his hair, still mumbling, "if you're trying to kill me, love, there are easier ways. You stupid, _stupid_ fuck." 

With Tommy suitably subdued, Alfie stands and turns, which is the first time he becomes aware of another presence in the room. There is a well-dressed lady with a fur coat and dark hair leaning, arms folded, in the doorway behind them. There's an amused twist to her dark red lips. 

"Well, well, well," she says, "I've no idea who you are, or what exactly you're doing in my house, but anyone who gets away with speaking to my brother like that deserves a drink."

"Ada, meet Alfie Solomons," Tommy rasps without so much as opening his eyes.

"You better not have fucked on my sofa, Tommy," Ada replies, cheeks pinking as she stalks off towards the kitchen. And then it's Alfie's turn to blush. Thank god Tommy has his eyes closed and doesn't catch it.

"Whiskey Mr Solomons? Or gin?" she calls from somewhere down the hallway.

"Tea," he answers swiftly, wondering what he's done in his life to deserve another fucking Shelby. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ada's thoughts begin to settle, to organise. Right, fact one: Tommy is naked, in her living room. Fact two: he looks bloody awful. Fact three. He is with Alfie Solomons, by all accounts a volatile, crazy some-time enemy, some-time friend. Fact four. They've almost certainly fucked on her sofa. Shit. She's too tired to deal with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ada comes to terms with recent revelations...

Ada marches into the kitchen and leans on the worktop, more shaken by this unexpected discovery than she's just let on. Whether the adrenaline coursing through her veins is borne out of anger or fear she hasn't worked out quite yet because...just...fuck. Fucking hell, Tommy. She reaches into the cabinet for cups and saucers and puts the kettle on to boil. There's a bottle of gin on the worktop which she eyes for all of three seconds before pouring a good measure into one of the teacups and swallowing it down neat.Her thoughts begin to settle, to organise.

Right, fact one: Tommy is naked, in her living room. Fact two: he looks bloody awful. Fact three. He is with Alfie Solomons, by all accounts a volatile, crazy some-time enemy, some-time friend. Fact four. They've almost certainly fucked on her sofa. _Shit_. She's too tired to deal with this. She's been on a boat for days and thought Polly was the most pressing problem, but clearly not.

It's not that she hasn't been concerned about Tommy too, she has. Her last phone call with him was pretty unsettling; he'd seemed to completely lose track of the conversation and hadn't even bothered to hide it. The stilted details she managed to get out of Frances had only made her worry more, something to do with an accident of some kind and a friend helping out. Frances is so goddamn loyal to her boss she gave away as little as possible whilst managing to sound extremely worried at the same time. Ada pours another gin. She's in the process of knocking it back when a voice from the doorway says,

"Like brother like sister,” making her jump and wheel round to look at him. He isn't in the least apologetic, simply walks towards her with his hand outstretched, "Alfie Solomons, pleased to meet you, Ms Thorne.”

She looks him up and down slowly, takes in the crumpled shirt, the shaggy beard, not what she expected at all. The man couldn't give a flying fuck about appearances, that much is clear; she would hazard a guess he doesn't give a fuck about a lot of social mores. She reaches her hand out and accepts the greeting. 

"After what I've just overheard, I think we're past formalities, Mr Solomons. You'd best call me Ada," she says, reaching out her hand to accept the greeting.

"Alfie," he replies. 

"What's up with my brother?" she asks bluntly.

He stares at her from beneath his brow as if giving serious thought to whether or not he is inclined to answer. He folds his arms across his chest – in a gesture that he manages to make look confrontational rather than defensive – before unfolding one hand to scratch his beard whilst he examines her intently. She holds his gaze, uncomfortable as it is, until he has apparently decided to grace her with an answer. 

"What's up with your brother," he repeats, rocking on his feet as he looks down at the floor briefly. "I'll tell you what's up with your brother..." he's speaking slowly, as if she might not have the intelligence to follow what he is about to say."Your brother is a self-loathing idiot who, for reasons I cannot begin to comprehend, is utterly at sea without his family around him.”

_Shit_. This is not what Ada was expecting. This actually sounds close to a genuine fucking answer. She reaches for her cigarette case.

"And when I say _at sea_," he emphasises the words carefully, "I do not mean that he has merely gone for a swim off Margate pier. No. I mean he is right out in the middle of the Atlantic fucking ocean...from whence you have just come if I am not very much mistaken…without the benefit of a bloody great boat."

_Bloody hell, she can see what Arthur meant about him talking in circles. God, he hasn't finished it seems…_

"But rather than actually admitting this fact to himself ... or anyone else for that matter ... he is flailing on and slowly but surely sinking. Drowning himself, if you will.”

She inhales deeply on her cigarette and mirrors his stance, arms folded across her middle, one hand reaching down to tap the ash from her cigarette. "And what is any of that to you?”

“Well, believe it or not _I_, for my many and varied sins, am trying to stop him," he says curtly. "Because sure as hell nobody else is.”

"That sounds like an accusation, Mr Solomons.”

"Merely an observation. Although if it was one of your brothers standing over there right now, or your aunt for that matter, then it would most definitely be an accusation.”

"And why am I any different?" she asks.

"Because _you_ are still talking to him. And I suspect _you_ may have some idea of what this whole situation is doing to him.”

_His eyes are very dark, _she thinks. _Intense. His whole presence is intense. But he's nothing if not perceptive._ The water is approaching boiling point on the stove, noisily adding to the tension in the room.

"Would you like me to leave?" he asks.

No, she thinks, somewhat surprising herself. No, she wouldn't like him to leave. Perhaps that's odd, but she asked him a question and he has given her an alarmingly honest, if unnecessarily florid, answer.She can't help but be intrigued by the type of man who can make Tommy Shelby actually listen. Right now, she has precious few sources of information and this man, unlikely and dangerous as he may seem, is one of them. Plus, if he does leave, she'll have to deal with Tommy on her own and that is not a prospect she relishes – he looks in a bad way. Not that she's going to admit any of _that_ to the man in her kitchen, so what she actually says, is "you haven't had your tea." She turns her back on him to attend to the kettle which has, right on cue, started to whistle fiercely. "There's no milk I'm afraid."

"Black is fine." 

She places a teapot on the kitchen table along with a cup and saucer. "I'll take Tommy some water," she says, filling a glass and stalking out of the room. 

She hovers in the hallway for a moment, watching Tommy through the living room door. He seems to have shrunk into the sofa - he's lying nestled into the backrest with his knees drawn up - a shirt barely covering his modesty. The injured hand lies palm upwards, carefully wrapped in a clean towel beside his face, exactly where Solomons left it. The last time she saw Tommy like this, all but naked, was bath time on a Saturday night at Watery Lane, when they were all still kids. It seems a lifetime ago.

He doesn't look like her big brother now, much less the infamous Thomas Shelby. He looks like a freshly hatched bird, all pale skin and bony angles – his hair stuck to his face like damp feathers. The effect is only enhanced by the huge, dusty overcoat beneath him, definitely not his own, into which he is curled like some sort of makeshift nest. He's trying to pull it over his shoulder. She perches next to him and puts a hand out, "you're too hot Tommy," she says gently, leaning over to unclench his fingers from the wool. She holds his hand for a moment and he squeezes her fingers weakly. The heat is radiating off him and his pulse flickers rapidly beneath the thin skin of his throat.

His eyes snap open when she pulls the towel open to look at his left hand. 

"Don't be such a baby, Tommy," she tuts, but the truth is it looks a fucking mess. He sucks air through his teeth as she uncurls his fingers. How the hell did he do it?

"You're not a bloody nurse," he says, glaring weakly at her.

"Nor is Alfie Solomons but you let him take the stitches out. What the fuck's going on, Tommy?”

"Nothing's going on, I'm fine.”

"Fine. Right. That's why you're naked on my sofa with a furious fever and a hand that looks like a bear's mauled it," she says. "And that man...that _dangerous_ fucking man..."

"We're both dangerous men, Ada.”

"The only danger you pose right now is to yourself, Tommy. Why the fuck have you let this happen? Why didn't you look after it? You know better." He doesn't answer, he’s closed his eyes and he’s frowning deeply. She can feel energy building in his muscles, on the cusp of erupting into shivers. Maybe Solomons is right, maybe he does have a death wish.

"Is Alfie still here?" he asks after a few moments silence.

"He's in my kitchen. Drinking tea." Tommy's brow smooths out slightly. “Bloody hell, you really like him, don’t you?” He makes a small hum of acknowledgement and Ada lets go of his hand. "Don't go to sleep, you need to drink this," she says but he groans and bats the glass away half-heartedly. She tries again.

"I'm tired Ada."

"I know. You can go to sleep once you've drunk it," she says, but he just groans weakly before he seems to shut down completely. "You're an infuriating bastard Tommy Shelby," she says, standing up, but it's more out of concern than malice. She steps out into the hallway ... blowing breath up over her top lip as she exhales. She hasn't even taken her coat off she realises when Solomons appears in the hallway.

"No luck?" he asks, nodding at the full glass in her hand.

"No. Stubborn fucking bastard," she spits, turning her head to make sure Tommy hears.

"May I?"

"Be my guest."

Solomons heads back into the living room as she shrugs her coat off and throws it on the banister. She can't help but watch and listen as she unpins her hair in the hallway mirror.

"Tommy, wake up," he says. "Drink the fucking water." Tommy gives him much the same response he gave Ada, an irritated grumble, which is strangely reassuring even if it doesn't help them. She bends down to take off her high heels...god that feels better.

"...Tommy, we're not doin' this. We are not having doctors and drips and needles again. So just wake up, sit the fuck up and drink it!”

_Again? What the fuck was wrong with him?_

She steps to one side of the doorway, so that she can see through the hinges without being seen. Solomons sits on the edge of the sofa, where she sat moments ago. "Your sister out there looks ready to fucking stab, shoot, cut or otherwise smite me down right here, in her own living room. So you ain't gonna give her due reason. You are going to do me a favour, for once, and drink the _fucking_ water." He pushes one arm under Tommy and hauls him into a semi-upright position, then puts the glass down briefly by his feet whilst he pulls the injured hand safely into his lap, adjusting the towel carefully. He reaches for the glass and brings it back to Tommy's lips, jostling and cajoling until he opens his mouth. "You ain't dying of stubbornness you fucking idiot," he growls. "Just drink and I'll leave you alone." There's a few seconds delay before, much to Ada's astonishment, Tommy does exactly as he's told and finishes the whole goddam glass. Wonders will never cease.

"I'm so cold," Tommy mumbles, slumping into the other man's side. The shivers are now back with a vengeance.

"Yeah well, that's just one of them cruel twists of fate innit?" Solomons says, stroking the hair out of Tommy's face and running his fingers slowly through it several times. "You're burning up but your brain's telling you you're freezing. Trust me, you're not. I’ll see if I can find you a sheet.”

"A blanket," Tommy whispers. 

“Don’t push your luck, love, a sheet's all you're gettin’."

_Love_? She almost feels guilty for spying on them … but it's far too fascinating _not_ to watch. She can't remember the last time she saw someone taking care of Tommy, or Tommy allowing it. Not since their mother at any rate, he was always special to their mother. She supposes Grace must have taken care of him too, but it never really seemed that way, or at least Ada never witnessed it. It's just very unexpected that it's a man taking care of him, and that it's this _particular_ man. First Tommy falls for an agent of the crown, now he's fucking the most fearsome gangster in London. He certainly knows how to pick them.Yet she's just watched Solomons be so careful with Tommy, so gentle even as he manhandled him, she can’t help but warm to him.

She pads quietly up the stairs in search of first aid supplies, wondering what on earth Tommy did to get his hand in that state in the first place. She’d bet good money it was his recklessness that caused it because, the thing is, she _does_ understand what this whole situation is doing to Tommy. He needs his family round him, even if he's too proud to admit it. But they've all gone... John and Arthur have wives who have pulled them away and Polly has Michael. Who does Tommy have? A toddler son and a house full of maids. It's no substitute – and she should bloody well know – bringing up a child alone, without the person you love, is a specific type of loneliness that she and Tommy share. They might not talk about it, because Tommy keeps his heart locked in a box most of the time, but it's understood.Maybe it's the war that's done this to him, or maybe it's grief. God knows he's lost more than his fair share – their mother, Greta, Grace and now Polly, in a way. Ada hopes she can fix that last one …although it won’t be quick.Maybe Tommy’s just given up on women.

Why should she worry if Alfie Solomons is filling the void? He does seem to care ... it's just that Tommy's life is dangerous enough already, without this.She sighs as she stretches up to search the last bathroom cupboard, finally finding the large first aid tin hidden behind numerous bottles of perfume, which no doubt this says a lot about her priorities.

Solomons is pacing the living room when she gets back downstairs, and for the first time she notices he has a limp. She takes a thermometer out of the tin and tucks it into Tommy's mouth.

"Right," she sighs. "Gonna have to put up with my amateur nursing skills Tom.”

"Why don't you let me?" Alfie says. "You must be tired after your journey."

"Thank you," she says, and is actually incredibly grateful. "You seem to be having more luck with him than me anyway." She turns to switch on several lamps instead, which rouses Tommy enough to moan and cover his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You willing to trust me then?" Alfie asks.

"I don't know yet," she says honestly, "but that idiot seems to and who am I to argue with the _great_ Tommy Shelby? Although you're not looking so great now are you, Tom?" she says sadly. She leans down to pluck the thermometer from his lips and stares at it for a few seconds, making sure she's read it right. "One hundred and fucking three! Shit,” she exclaims, unable to keep the dismay out of her voice. This is fucking serious; it suddenly feels very real and all too familiar; she wants to run away, to pretend this isn't happening, that this isn’t how Freddie went. "Don't you do this to me Tommy. Don't you fucking _dare_," she shouts. He rocks his head from side to side and at first she thinks he's heard her, but then he starts mumbling quietly, nonsense about the January and Skylark and curses.

Within a moment Alfie has opened the windows, filling the room with cool air. Then he strides straight past her calling, "I'll get more water. You get some fuckin' flannels." She can hear him running the tap in the kitchen as she dashes up to the bathroom to find cloths and towels and a large washbowl. She's only gone moments, but as she comes back down the stairs she can see Tommy, on his feet and heading for the hallway. He’s stark bullock naked except for the large black coat he's dragging behind him. He stops in the doorway and starts fighting his way into the garment, flushed and sweating as he is. When his eyes flick up to where she's standing, halfway down the stairs, he looks absolutely wild ... he’s scaring her.

"Tommy," she says, as calmly as she can manage, "Tommy, what the fuck are you doing?"

"It's too cold in there," he says quietly, fiddling with the coat. "It's too _cold_ Ada ... why is this house so fuckin' _cold_?" He has his right arm in one sleeve now and is trying to find the other with his injured hand. "I'm going to Camden ... going to Alfie’s.”

"Alfie's here, love," she says, but it’s as if he hasn’t heard her. 

"It’s warm there," he says, looking towards the front door. Too late Ada spots him forcing his left hand into the other coat sleeve, completely oblivious to his injury, but only for a moment.

"Fuuuuck!" he roars doubling over in pain. A glass smashes somewhere near the kitchen and she turns to see Solomons limping quickly towards the living room, swearing loudly. Ada watches as he catches up to Tommy, tucking his arms inside the open coat and pulling him upright. Tommy presses his forehead into the man's shoulder, groaning and panting through gritted teeth. Ada's own heart is hammering in her chest, all she can look at is that hand, bright red and swollen, he must be in agony. Alfie is the first one to speak, once Tommy has calmed down.

"Right now, lovely as it looks on you, I'm afraid you are gonna have to take my coat off, mate," he says in a low, calm voice. Tommy's head shakes slightly against the man's shoulder. "Yeah, you are Tommy, because aside from coats being a very bad idea when you have a fever, this one is also about three sizes too big for you, love. You look like a kid in his dad's clothes.”

"Don't...don't you mention him," Tommy rasps angrily but then his legs are giving way, she can tell by the way Solomons alters his stance to take the weight. Somehow he manages to slide the coat off Tommy's right shoulder, but they both stumble alarmingly.

"Give us a hand here," he says. "If I let go, he's gonna fall. Get this damn coat off him before he fries.”

She dumps the flannels and bowl on the hall table and moves to help but there's no way to get the sleeve down Tommy's arm without hurting him again; she does it as gently as she can. He hisses, but it's muffled by Solomons' shoulder and she does her best to block it out. Ada feels like crying, which is ridiculous and unhelpful and not her style at all, but she's just so tired and she feels utterly useless. She wishes Polly was here instead of this brusque man, although admittedly she wouldn't be quite as useful in holding Tommy up.

"Mr Solomons," she starts…

"Alfie, it's fucking _Alfie_. Alright?" he says crossly, voice straining because Tommy has now gone completely limp in his arms. _Fucking, fucking shit,_ Ada thinks. For a moment it looks like they're going to end up on the floor, but Alfie has just bent his knees in order to heft Tommy up in an impressively swift move, putting one arm around his back and the other beneath his knees.

"Can you get him upstairs?" she asks, not that she wants to offend Alfie, I mean he does look strong, it's just that she knows he has that limp. He leans against the wall at the bottom of the stairs for a moment and Ada takes the opportunity to fetch the sheet from the living room floor and lay it over Tommy. She's not really sure why she's bothering anymore; she's seen everything there is to see. It just makes him look less vulnerable she supposes.

"Lead the way," Alfie groans, before turning his head down to the man in his arms. "This is the one and only time I am going to appreciate that you don't eat much, mate."

Ada shows him into the guest bedroom and Alfie lays Tommy out on the bed. There ensues a period of frantic rushing as she fetches all the supplies from downstairs and Alfie washes the dust and wool fibres out of his hand, cursing repeatedly about how he's let this happen. Ada sets about sponging Tommy down with cool flannels, alarmed by how quickly the moisture evaporates from his skin and his increasingly erratic behaviour. He tosses and turns one minute, kicking out and swearing, the next he is relatively still but mumbling incoherently about Polly, their father, the darkness. He asks repeatedly for Alfie too, without ever seeming to register that he’s there.

"I'm calling the doctor," Ada says abruptly.

–––––

Two hours later, Tommy is quiet and still. His hand has been properly dressed and the doctor has reiterated what they already knew: it’s a very high fever caused by infection. He's begrudgingly impressed with Alfie's first aid measures, noting that infections of the hand spread notoriously quickly so getting the stitches out when he did may have slowed things down. They just have to hope they've caught it early enough for Tommy’s body to fight it off – only time will tell. They've been left with quinine and a new drug for the fever, which the doctor assures them should help, so long as he comes back daily to change the dressing and so long as Tommy drinks and rests.

Ada had spent the next fifteen minutes trying to coax Tommy into taking the medicine; not easy when he's barely conscious and belligerent as fuck. When he'd refused two dozen times and lashed out at her physically Alfie finally lost patience and took over – holding Tommy's nose and forcing it down his throat despite the furious coughing and choking sounds. Ada had watched with both hands over her face, horrified and yet strangely assured that it was the sort of no nonsense approach Polly might have resorted to had she been here. Only Tommy could be so fucking stubborn even when he's delirious

Ada and Alfie exchange relieved glances once it's done. Tommy looks more peaceful than he has in hours; whether it's the drugs taking effect or he's just exhausted himself from fighting them she isn't sure. She really ought to go and get some rest herself, it's the middle of the night, but when she looks over at Alfie, sitting in the chair with his head in his hands, he looks so utterly dejected she can't bring herself to leave. 

"He's always been the same," she says quietly. "Always looked after everyone else better than himself. Always been stubborn. Always thought he knew best." Alfie doesn't say anything, but he sighs deeply and she continues nonetheless. "He used to be a bit softer about it mind, used to at least smile and _pretend_ he was listening before he went and did exactly what he wanted.”

"Doesn't smile much now does he?" Alfie says without looking up.

"No. He makes you earn them alright,” she sighs. “You really like him, don't you?"

“S’it that obvious?" he says with a totally mirthless laugh.

"Yes. It is actually," she says.

"Just wish he liked himself a bit more. Bloody idiot."

"I don't think he can, Alfie. That's just part of the package," she says sadly. "His brain might work a lot faster than anyone else's but his heart's different. Slower. It takes a long time for him to let someone in."

"Hmm."

"You know it took him well over two years to go back for Grace? And he loved her. Really loved her. Fucking waste of time they could have had if you ask me, but that's Tommy for you," she says sadly. "So how long have you two been…close?"

"Since he came out of hospital, you know, after that priest nearly killed 'im." _Fuck, there's something else Ada doesn't like to dwell on, that fucking awful night she took Tommy to hospital_.

“Well, that’s only what, just over six months ago? He must like you." She's not just saying kind words, it's true. "He’s just afraid to lose again, to be vulnerable.” _Ironic_, she thinks, looking at how fragile he looks now.

"Like you?" Alfie asks, sitting up slowly and looking at her. His eyes look red.

“Maybe," she says with a shy smile. Alfie has that knack of looking right into your head. "But then I haven’t met anyone I’ve cared enough to try with since Freddie,” she says honestly. “But I think Tommy has. Just don't expect too much of him, eh? He already expects too much of himself." _He'll move at his own pace where his emotions are concerned, no matter what any of them say, Ada knows that much. _"You just have to be prepared to hold on gently, look after him when he doesn't do that for himself." 

Alfie pinches his eyes and holds his hand there and Ada can’t help but feel sorry for him. Loving Tommy can’t be easy. "But it's not enough, is it?” he says after they’ve sat in silence for a while. “He's gonna fucking break and I'm not enough to stop him." 

"I don't know what's gone on these past few weeks, but from what I’ve seen, you've already stopped him more than once.”

"Maybe," Alfie says quietly.

"Right, I am going to try and get some sleep. I've got to try and talk some sense into my fucked-up family tomorrow, and lord knows I need some rest before that." She stands and turns to leave the room. “Now, if I were you I'd take your shoes off and get into that bed with him. It's late and he clearly wants you."

Alfie looks up at her quizzically.

“Don’t look at me like that. I couldn't give a fuck who he shares his bed with as long as they’re good to him. But, you hurt him or double-cross him and I will fucking smite you down, Solomons. You’d better believe it.”

_____

Ada leaves for Birmingham the next day, entrusting Alfie to look after Tommy. She visits Polly, Arthur and John. There are no quick solutions to the rift, but she makes sure everyone knows her views, in no uncertain terms. Alfie stays at her house with Tommy to make sure he sees the doctor every day and takes his medicine. The fever recedes gradually and she rings every night for an update, much to Tommy’s annoyance. By the time she gets back four days later Tommy seems almost himself again.

When she walks into the living room this time he is laying on his back on the sofa with his head in Alfie's lap, cigarette in hand. It's strangely domestic which makes her smile.

"Nice of you to put some clothes on this time, Tom,” she teases. He's only wearing an undershirt and trousers, his bare feet dangle over the armrest.

“You were supposed to be in fucking New York," Tommy says in a monotone, but she can see the colour creep over his cheeks.

"All I'm saying is that I appreciate the trousers. I’ve seen enough of your arse to last a life time.”

"Now hold on a minute, that is actually a physical impossibility," Alfie joins in, "because your brother happens to have the nicest arse…"

“Shut up, Alfie," Tommy and Ada chime in almost perfect unison.

“Right, well I know where I’m not wanted, think I’ll make some tea. Won’t bother asking whether you two hardened alcoholics want any,” Alfie huffs as he wanders out to the kitchen.

Ada sits down next to Tommy, who has hauled himself up into a sitting position on the sofa. He gives her a sheepish sideways glance. “Sorry, Ada,” he says quietly.

“Sorry?" she asks. "Did I hear you right?” 

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”

“Find out what? That you’re a bloody reckless idiot or that you’ve found someone?”

“I like him, Ada.”

“I know,” she says, patting his hand. “I do too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 nearly killed me, probably because it was Ada's POV. I kept wanting to go back to Alfie's, but, you know, have to mix it up sometimes I guess! I hope it's ok...


End file.
